


If the fates allow

by seekwill



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, In a Supply Closet, M/M, Nostalgia, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, former coworkers, holiday parties, it's a christmas miracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill
Summary: Aziraphale flushed slightly under the lights and his gaze shifted off to the side, a still-familiar anxious tic. “I’m so sorry that it took me a moment. It’s just that it’s-”“-been a couple of decades, yeah.” Crowley smiled broadly to show there was no harm done, and extended his hand for Aziraphale to take. “Wouldn’t have surprised me if you didn’t recognize me at all.”“I do, though. I do. Of course.” Aziraphale took his hand and Crowley nearly reeled at the softness of it. Dry and soft and--God. Pretty?--A pretty hand. “It feels like--my God--it feels like only yesterday.”A chance encounter, reminiscing for times long past, and discovering the fire he thought had been put out long ago still burns bright? This might be Crowley’s best work Christmas party yet.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 450
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	If the fates allow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/gifts).



> Happy birthday to an incredible beta, and. more importantly, a spectacular friend. Summerofspock, it’s been _a year_.
> 
> Many thanks to Euny_Sloane for the beta.

Crowley watched with anticipation as Beez held the bottle of champagne between their thighs and walloped the cork with the heel of their hastily removed boot. They were — the entire office that is — T minus five seconds from this Christmas shindig devolving into complete debauchery, and they’d only been in the sticky, wood paneled side-room at the pub for ninety minutes. That said, things had collapsed into madness much sooner at previous holiday dos. By that measure, this year things were positively restrained.

With one final, decisive whack, Beez dislodged the champagne cork and it shot across the room, accompanied by the cheers and jeers of the merry band of misfits Crowley called his co-workers. Beez haphazardly poured the champagne into a series of flutes, spilling a quarter of it in the process. When they offered one to Crowley, he demurred.

“I’ll take a raincheck on that. Going to pop out for a smoke.”

“A what?” yelled Beez, over the din.

Crowley mimed smoking a cigarette and pointed behind him to the exit.

Beez extended their hand and made a grabbing motion with their fingers. “Give me one then, for later!”

Crowley rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Beez would be grateful and sloppy later on, and would end up saying something kind and affectionate that they’d almost certainly regret the morning after. Crowley wanted a front row seat to that show. He winked at them as they placed the cigarette behind their ear, then extracted himself from the festivities.

The pub was packed to the gills, as this kind of place always was in the weeks leading up to the Christmas holidays. It had a fire roaring in the hearth, Christmas trees and baubles gracing every surface, and a shit-faced collection of salarymen who would barely make it home on the train without vomiting. Ah, Christmas.

Crowley stepped out onto the London pavement, cool air enveloping him. There were several others gathered around the entrance, pints in hand and chattering away about this and that. The whole lot of them were wearing their coats, and were therefore smarter than him. He turned to head back inside, to grab his coat off the bench seat where he’d left it, when a solo figure caught his eye.

The man stood under a street lamp, hands clasped around a single glass of white wine. He glanced upwards towards the light snow falling, the kind that melted the second it hit the ground. His white- blonde hair glowed in the lamplight. His expression was worried, as if he were awaiting some very bad news to be delivered from the heavens above. He was wearing a truly horrendous Christmas jumper.

Something low in Crowley’s gut pulled him towards this man, and he pushed his sunglasses up on his head to get a clearer look.

At that moment, the man looked down and back towards the pub, and Crowley knew him. Aziraphale Fell. It had been years -- Crowley quickly did the math -- two decades and change since he’d laid eyes on him, and he was exactly the same. 

It wasn’t that he looked young. He looked each of his forty-odd years, as Crowley knew he did as well. But he gave off the same nervous energy, his brow still stuck in its concerned furrow. That quiet, apprehensive smirk was the one that had lived rent free in Crowley’s brain since the day they had parted ways.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, before he could stop himself. 

Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, and his head tilted as he worked to place him. To be fair, it had been a long time, and the last time they’d spoken Crowley had a bit of a different look. He’d worn business suits in those days. Shiny ones that had been in fashion in the late nineties—a dark time for everyone. He hadn’t had the face tattoo either, the snake coiled alongside his face that made his mother recoil and cry “Oh Anthony, you’re going to put me in an early grave” each time she looked at it.

He’d gone the opposite direction than most people did - alternative in their youth then conservative as retirement creeped ever closer. Crowley had gotten the aforementioned tattoo, grown his hair out, assembled a wardrobe with nary a business suit in sight, and he was happier for it. And Aziraphale had, of course, remained exactly as he was. Judging by the look of his shoes, they were the very same wingtips Crowley had seen him wear so long ago. They were both out of step, it seemed.

“Oh, oh my goodness,” said Aziraphale, recognition flickering across his features. “Crowley.”

The warmth with which he said Crowley’s name was enough to set a fire in Crowley’s belly. He hadn’t realized that particular fire would still have any spark to it after this much time had passed. But here he was, twenty odd years on, and Aziraphale could still light him up with a single word. He wished that he had taken that glass of champagne from Beez so he could down it in a single shot.

Aziraphale flushed slightly under the lights and his gaze shifted off to the side, a still-familiar anxious tic. “I’m so sorry that it took me a moment. It’s just that it’s-”

“-been a couple of decades, yeah.” Crowley smiled broadly to show there was no harm done, and extended his hand for Aziraphale to take. “Wouldn’t have surprised me if you didn’t recognize me at all.”

“I do, though. I do. Of course.” Aziraphale took his hand and Crowley nearly reeled at the softness of it. Dry and soft and--God. Pretty?--A pretty hand. “It feels like--my God--it feels like only yesterday.”

When their reunion handshake dropped, Crowley felt the loss immediately, and wanted to hug Aziraphale. Although he was sure his impulse came from the fact that he’d obviously made their brief, though intense workplace friendship into something it wasn’t, and then had hung onto that misconception for a casual twenty years. 

“How are you?” Aziraphale asked. “And where are you now?”

“Well, at present, I’m standing on Watling Street, living in the past and getting snowed on.”

Aziraphale swatted Crowley’s arm playfully, which made Crowley’s heart soar, but had the opposite effect of bringing Aziraphale back into himself, as if he were embarrassed at his own familiarity. He took a steadying sip of his wine. “Oh, you know what I mean,” he murmured over the rim of his glass.

Crowley always did want to rescue him, from the slightest discomfort. “Would you believe I found my way into waste management?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Aziraphale. Looking entirely genuine, he added “How fascinating!”

“It’s really not,” said Crowley. “But it’s not exactly the most vied after position, so they let me do what I like and pay me well for it, so long as the outcome’s what they want.”

“Have you read  _ Les Miserables _ ?”

“I-” Crowley’s eyes widened at the non-sequitur. “No. Can’t say I have. Saw the movie. With Wolverine, or whatever.”

“That film is…” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed with the introduction of the movie to the conversation. “Well, I won’t get started, otherwise you’d be here all night, but the book--Victor Hugo--there’s a whole section, if you get the unabridged version, which you should, about the sewers of Paris and how they were operating at the time. The characters use them to escape, you see. I won’t spoil any more should you want to read it. It’s very in-depth, and really, truly very fascinating.”

As Aziraphale spoke, his earlier embarrassment dissipated, lost in reverie. About sewers. 

Crowley couldn’t help himself from smiling. Only Aziraphale Fell could make prattling on about sewage systems charming. “So, you recommend the book, then?”

“Oh, my dear. I always recommend the book.”

How had he forgotten about Aziraphale’s pet names? It wasn’t that Crowley was special in that regard. Aziraphale called everyone  _ my dear _ , or  _ dearheart _ , or  _ lovely _ . On anyone else it would be grating or patronizing, but when Aziraphale did it, it felt like being knighted. Like he was bequeathing you some sort of sacred title. Crowley didn’t know anyone else who could do that.

“And what is it you’re up to these days?” asked Crowley, watching as Aziraphale rotated the wine glass in his hands.

“Ah. That. Well, still with the firm.”

Crowley drew back an inch. “Are you really?”

“Yes. Really.” Another nervous sip of wine.

“That surprises me, honestly.”

Aziraphale looked up, and there was something wounded in his expression. Crowley immediately regretted his candour. Wished he had opted for a more polite response. 

“Why are you surprised?” asked Aziraphale, whose voice had gone a little breathy.

Crowley wished his first impulse had not been to challenge Aziraphale on his choices. But he was in it now, so he might as well barrel forward. “Well, for starters, no one stays anywhere for twenty-odd years anymore. Hell, the kids, young people, whatever, they’re changing jobs every twenty minutes.” Crowley was gesticulating wildly, and he pulled out a cigarette in order to give his hands something to do. “D’you mind if I-”

“No, please. Go ahead.”

Aziraphale seemed sincere and didn’t step back to avoid the smoke so Crowley lit up. He paused before placing the case in his back pocket and looked back to his former colleague. “Actually, would you-”

“Yes. Please. Thank you.”

Crowley passed him a cigarette and then lit up for them both. Had Aziraphale smoked when they worked together? He didn’t think so. Maybe he  _ had  _ changed a little.

“Right, and then,” Crowley began, jumping right in where he’d left off. “At the time, back when I left, I just assumed you’d leave. In due time. You were so much better than all that lot.”

Aziraphale exhaled heady smoke into the night. “That lot?”

“Oh, you know. Everyone there was a wanker.” Crowley took a drag of his cigarette. “‘Cept for you, of course.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I appreciate your faith in my character. Alas, I am still there. Some of those ‘wankers’ are as well. And they’re in the upstairs party room if you feel inspired to say hello.”

If Crowley had been drinking something, he would’ve almost certainly choked on it. And if he was lucky he would have died on the spot. “Shit. I’m sorry. You’re at your Christmas party?”

“I am, but don’t apologize, dear. Your assessment is entirely accurate.”

Crowley pushed a hand through his hair and laughed in relief. They were on the same side. Still. “Is that geezer still running the show? Wassis name. Meta-something-or-other?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Harold Metatron? No.” He shook his head. “No, he’s dead.”

“Fuck!” Crowley seemed determined to walk on landmines tonight. He wouldn’t have any limbs left if he kept at it.

For his part, Aziraphale continued on, completely unaffected. “Wasn’t all that long ago actually. They brought in someone from the Chicago office to replace him. An  _ American _ .”  _ American _ was delivered with profound distaste.

“You sound like you love that.”

“He’s-” Aziraphale quickly looked around them to see if they were being eavesdropped on. Satisfied they weren’t, he continued. “-always wanting us to do team building exercises. And  _ fun runs _ .” 

Crowley barked out another laugh. “I’d rather walk through hell.”

“Me too, rather. But he did choose the venue for tonight, and I must say it’s rather lovely.” Aziraphale finished his wine and left the glass on the ledge of the pub window along with an assortment of other glasses abandoned by patrons as the night had gone on. “He has wonderful taste. It’s absolutely infuriating.”

There he was, in all his glory: the Aziraphale that Crowley remembered. Intelligent, soft, loving, and a bit of a bitch when he wanted to be. “It is a great pub,” Crowley conceded, his grin plain on his face. “Good food too. You folks must’ve booked the upstairs room right before we called. We’re in the side room.”

“Your party is here as well?”

“Yeah.”

“How funny. What a lovely coincidence.” And he sounded, incredibly, like he meant it.

Crowley smiled a kind of cracked-open smile that had the side effect of making his heart ache. “Real Christmas miracle, that.” He looked at the ground, feeling very exposed.

“You know,” started Aziraphale, his cigarette burning to nothing between his fingers. Had he even taken another drag off it after the first? “I was so disappointed when you left.”

When Crowley looked up it was Aziraphale’s turn to look away. His cheeks were pink but Crowley couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the admission. He was looking back at the entrance to the pub, but Crowley could tell he wasn’t really seeing it. He’d gone back to that last time they’d bid farewell.

“I daresay I was a bit smitten with you.”

Crowley’s eyes widened, but otherwise, he kept his expression neutral. Aziraphale had been  _ what _ with him?

“You were always wearing those sunglasses inside. Like a real rebel. And you were so charming.”

“If I’d stayed any longer I’m sure I would’ve blown that impression right up.” Crowley had never been content with praise. Even twenty-odd years after the fact. Plus, brushing off the compliment was easier than saying  _ Smitten? Fuck’s sake, I was arse over tits for you. _

Aziraphale’s hazel eyes returned to him, both kind and skeptical. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second.”

Crowley could see then, realized, that this was not just nostalgia. Nostalgia was the desire for what was, and the thing that lived between them was not of the past at all. Ten minutes out here on the pavement had resurrected a secret that they’d both carried. It was pulsing, and warm, and defiantly alive.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I meant to look you up, you know? Back then.”

Aziraphale cracked a smile. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Was too chickenshit to call the office, but hung around a bit, outside.” Crowley laughed bitterly at himself. “God, that makes me sound like a creep.”

“No, no, it doesn’t. I… I wish I’d known. Are you married? Children?” The weight of the hope in Aziraphale’s question could’ve knocked Crowley right out.

“No. It’s just me. You?”

“No. I mean, yes, it’s just me. No one else.”

Crowley smiled. Aziraphale smiled. A couple of loons grinning at each other under the Christmas lights as the holiday crowds passed them.  _ Ask him out _ , whispered Crowley’s heart.  _ Ask for his number. Tell him you want to catch up on everything that’s happened between then and now. Tell him you want to snog him until you both suffocate. _

But before he could…

“Anthony J.! Get the fuck back in here!”

Crowley turned to see Beez perched on the threshold of the pub. They apparently hadn’t bothered to put their boot back on after de-corking the champagne, which gave them a lopsided effect.

“I’ll just be a minute, yeah?”

“Whatever, just make it quick!” Beez was momentarily distracted by a lad in a rugby jersey who passed them in the doorway, and looked them up and down with apparent approval. Beez sneered. “Not on your life, mate. Not even in your fucking dreams.”

As the boy stood stunned, Beez plucked the pint from his hand, made an incredulous face at Crowley, and went back inside, walking gingerly on their one sock foot.

“They seem like fun,” said Aziraphale, smiling.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, disappointed that Beez had interrupted his moment. “Would you believe that’s my boss? The Prince of Metropolitan London Waste Management.”

“In this city, anything is possible.”

“You’re right about that.” Crowley lingered a moment. He didn’t want to go back to the pub’s side room with his colleagues, no matter the misbehaviour those degenerates were bound to get up to. But if he didn’t go, it was only a matter of time before Beez made their second appearance. “It was so nice to see you.” Crowley suppressed a cringe. He hadn’t realized he’d sound quite that sincere saying that. How embarrassing.

But Aziraphale lit up from within. “Wasn’t it? Perhaps we could. Oh, I don’t know. Get a coffee or something. Catch up properly.”

Thank fuck that Aziraphale could do what Crowley couldn’t. “I’d like that, yeah, let me…” Crowley pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and slipped out a business card. He was suddenly a little self conscious at his title.  _ Executive Vice President, Logistics _ . He shrugged it off. After twenty years in the same spot, Aziraphale no doubt sported an equally pretentious title. “Here’s my card. Shite. Don’t I sound like an arsehole? Who says that?  _ Here’s my card. _ ”

“Well, I’m very pleased to have it.” Aziraphale examined the card, then slipped it delicately into his pocket. “I should let you get back to your party. I should get back to my own as well, I suppose. God forbid I should miss any group activities.”

Crowley was deeply fond of the way Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “We could walk in together?” he suggested.

“We could, you’re right. Since we’re both heading the same way.”

As they worked their way through the crowded pub dining room, Crowley could feel Aziraphale at his back, mere inches away. Even though the room was full of the laughter and bantering of the bodies that surrounded them, Crowley imagined he could hear Aziraphale’s breathing, his heart beating. Ridiculous. It had just been so long, and he was so sad to be parting so soon. But maybe Aziraphale would use that card. They’d have an early morning tea at a Costa. He’d see Aziraphale in an overcoat and suit and Crowley would probably drool all over the table like a hopeless teen. There was also a chance that Aziraphale would put his card in the bin the moment he got home, but for some reason that didn’t feel likely, and it was Christmas, so what was the point of thinking of that kind of outcome, anyway?

The two of them pushed through a swinging door and ended up at the base of the stairs, which led to the room where Aziraphale’s party was in full swing. To the left was the door to the side room, where Crowley’s party was devolving into festive chaos. 

Aziraphale glanced apprehensively up the stairs, and then back to Crowley. Without a cigarette or wine glass, his fingers twisted and pulled at one another, and Crowley recognized the nervous tic across time. Aziraphale was so much the same.

Still fidgeting, he murmured, “Well then.”

“Enjoy your party,” said Crowley, suppressing a disappointed sigh. “And, uh, Happy Christmas.”

“Oh, yes, Crowley. Happy Christmas to you, too.”

That they both went in for a hug was more than encouraging. No faux-masculine handshake or pat on the back, or, worst of all, a half-hearted wave. No, Aziraphale hugged him close and it was lovely. Had they ever hugged, all those years ago, or would that have been too much then, too obvious? Would he have shown his cards too early if he ever wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and came close enough to smell him?

The cologne Aziraphale wore this evening was subtle, yet distinct. Like a gentlemen’s club, the classy kind with dark mahogany walls and a smoking room and a library. Something dark and warm and perfectly Aziraphale. It made Crowley a little dizzy.

But none of that compared to what came next - the dry brush of Aziraphale’s lips across his cheek.

What the Crowley of 1999 wouldn’t have done for that moment, a moment that seemed so impossible, so otherworldly that even having it happen now seemed something of a dream, some memory that came to him midway through a day and left him convinced it couldn’t be real. What the Crowley of 1999 wouldn’t have given to openly ask the object of so much affection out for a coffee, a drink, out for a weekend away or a trip to Spain.

It would be so easy to feel sad at all the lost possibilities between then and now, between the last time he saw Aziraphale and this night, in this pub. The serendipity of their both getting some air at the same time. But it wasn’t like he’d been alone in the dark all those years, and why linger on what was lost when there was no guarantee that anything would have worked back then. Hell, there was no guarantee that things would work now, but wouldn’t it be nice to see?

Crowley drew back and looked at Aziraphale’s blushing face and nervous eyes.

“That was… rather forward of me. Presumptuous, even. I’m so-”

Aziraphale abruptly stopped speaking as Crowley’s fingers cupped the back of his head, and brought their lips together. It was slow, and warm, but not hesitant--ready and charging forward. Aziraphale’s hands rested on Crowley’s hips.

The door to the landing from the dining room swung open, filling the small space with an overflow of sound but neither Aziraphale or Crowley pulled away, and whoever had entered continued on their way without comment. It was Christmas, wasn’t it? Snogging old friends in embarrassing Christmas sweaters was fair game. To be expected, even.

Crowley couldn’t stop himself from grinning, and his smile broke the kiss with a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, very softly.

“Yeah,” said Crowley.

“What’s that thing people say? The more things change, the more they--”

“Stay the same.”

Aziraphale’s arms snaked around Crowley’s waist and they were kissing again. The urgency increased, and it started to feel very much like need. They lost their balance for a moment and one of Crowley’s hands groped for the wall to steady them both. They didn’t break the kiss until Crowley’s hand found a door knob.

The door knob turned easily, and they quickly discovered that there was a panel in the wall, a whole door, that when opened revealed a cramped closet stocked with cleaning supplies, bin liners, toilet tissue. A single cord hung from the ceiling, attached to a bare bulb.

The two men exchanged a glance. Crowley couldn’t say which of them made the first move. It felt as close to a joint decision as two people could get without speaking, and they stumbled into the room, closing the disguised door behind them. Crowley waved his hand in the air, searching for the light cord. He pulled it, and both men were illuminated, in what was possibly the most unflattering lighting on the face of the planet.

That, in combination with their surroundings and proximity, provoked a fit of laughter from both men, until Aziraphale leaned forward to continue what the discovery of the door had interrupted. The tone swung wildly back and forth, the previous shared mirth slipping away in an instant, replaced with a mutual, insistent need.

Crowley’s thigh slipped between Aziraphale’s legs, and their hips pressed together. Breath caught. Moans escaped mouths. Hands explored new territory, trying to make up for lost time. 

Then Crowley paused. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. Every molecule he was made of raged towards the wanting of it. It was just--

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and concerned. His soft hands came to rest on Crowley’s shoulders.

“Yeah, sorry. Yeah. I’m just…I’d hate to do this and not see you again.” Was that what this had turned into? A little holiday quickie before they never saw each other again.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “Dear boy, I was under the impression we had plans for coffee. Though, if you’re the executive VP of logistics I suspect we can try for something a little more ambitious. Dinner, maybe?”

“Oh! So this is--” Crowley cleared his throat, “--in addition to what we’ve discussed. Not, uh, in place of.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t often find myself in supply closets with eligible gentlemen.”

Crowley could feel himself redden, and tried to dispel his own embarrassment. “More of a cloak room bloke, eh?”

“Quite.” Aziraphale was smiling at him still, which felt like a miracle. “But perhaps you’d prefer if we put a raincheck on this.”

“I don’t prefer, actually.” Crowley smoothed his hands down Aziraphale’s chest, trying, not for the first time, to ignore the sweater. “I just didn’t want this to be it. I still want to get that coffee, or dinner.”

“Which we’ve established that we--”

“--we will, yeah.” Crowley took in Aziraphale’s features. The rounded cheeks, the nervous brows, the parted lips. “This is fast?” he said, almost a question. He hadn’t been drinking much, so he wasn’t sloppy or slow-witted, and he knew he liked Aziraphale, had always liked him, had in fact spent several years in love with him, which he’d been sure was unrequited. But still, this was fast. And shouldn’t he be smarter than this?

“It is,” said Aziraphale, but then his warm hand was brushing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead, and stroking his cheek with the backs of thick fingers. “But all my life, I have moved so slowly. I have done so as a way of protecting myself, and I thought, protecting others. But when I reflect on all of those moments, all the times I decided that I would move slow, there is not a single instance that I can look back on without regret. There’s a time for caution. Say, oh, crossing the street at rush hour, buying a flat, picking wine for a housewarming gift for a host you don’t know that well--”

Crowley released an impatient chuckle. “Aziraphale.” 

“Yes, sorry, where was I? Right, yes. Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes bore into Crowley’s own. “I am so sick, and so very tired, of moving slowly.”

“Right,” said Crowley, dumbstruck.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, and he kissed him again.

Crowley could get used to this. 

Several packages of toilet roll tumbled off the shelf as Aziraphale backed Crowley into it, which they ignored. Hands frantically pulled at belts. And then…

“Oh, fuck me,” Crowley whimpered as Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around both their pricks, the warmth of his soft hand shooting an electric spark up Crowley’s spine.

“In due time, my dear. Due time.”

Crowley wound his fingers through Aziraphale’s white blond curls as he whispered things filthier and lovelier than Crowley had ever dared imagine as he worked to bring them both off. His grip was firm and yielding all at once, sure and sweet.

“You stunning creature,” Aziraphale murmured. “After all this time, I never would have thought, couldn’t have dreamed you’d be more beautiful than when we parted ways. So young, and bright, just gorgeous. But, God, to see you now. To see you and touch you…”

“Jesus, Aziraphale.” Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale’s words or his hands were more to blame for his rapidly eroding self-control. 

“To hold your lovely cock, darling. To feel you. I can’t, oh. You are--”

Crowley kissed him as he came and covered both their hands in spend. Aziraphale moaned onto Crowley’s lips, in both encouragement and pleasure. Then, with his free hand locked onto the back of Crowley’s neck, he finished as well. 

Both men panted, smiling. Aziraphale unwrapped a package of toilet roll one-handed and wiped them both (somewhat) clean.

“I feel like I’m about nineteen years old, right now.” Aziraphale chuckled as he did up his belt. “I haven’t done anything like that in, goodness, years and years.”

“I’ve never done anything like that, ever.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and lips parted in surprise. There were several small shifts in his expression, like he was cycling through options and couldn’t decide on which he wanted to land. “Really?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” said Crowley, hoping his tone would convey his lack of offense. He certainly had done everything in his power in his twenties to make himself come off as a man about town, when he had in fact spent most of his free time driving around the countryside and cultivating his bonsai tree collection.

“No, it’s not that. I suppose I’m just…” Aziraphale paused, then smiled brilliantly. “Touched. That you would save such an occasion for me. Never forget your first, and all that.”

The two immediately broke into laughter that in no time dissolved into something bordering on hysterical, tears of mirth sliding down both of their faces. Crowley dropped his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder and tried to stifle the sounds escaping his mouth with his hand to little success. Warm, sturdy arms snaked around Crowley’s shoulders and it felt wonderful. All of this: the afterglow from the orgasm, the laughing, how easy it felt to be together, how familiar it all felt, though in reality, they had only really just met. It was wonderful.

Then the door to the supply closet flew open, revealing a very startled server. She apologized several times, as a result of what Crowley suspected was a sort of customer service industry tic, and he and Aziraphale matched those apologies with their own. He also flushed in relief that the girl hadn’t come looking for cleaner just five minutes earlier. Someone was looking out for Crowley tonight. First time for everything. 

“So,” started Aziraphale, when all three of them had recovered, with Crowley and Aziraphale on the appropriate side of the supply closet door, and the server gone on her way.

“So,” echoed Crowley.

“Dinner?”

“Please.”

But it was so hard to separate. Each time one of them would take a step towards their respective parties, the other would follow. It was only when a tall man with a Hollywood face appeared at the top of the stairs that it seemed their encounter was coming to a real close.

“Aziraphale! Where have you been? The gift exchange is starting!” The man grinned broadly and stood firmly in spot, expectant, looking down at the both of them.

Aziraphale sighed. “Right then. Just two tics.” 

The man nodded, and neither he nor his smile moved. Aziraphale sighed again. “Duty calls,” he murmured. “And I’ll call you. Tonight, probably, if I’m being honest.”

“I’d like that.”

As if one audience member wasn’t enough, the door to the side room flew open and Beez stood there snarling and wearing a lopsided paper crown. An explosion of noise spilled out onto the landing as several Christmas crackers were pulled at once.

“What in the world is taking you so long?”

“Just saying goodnight,” Crowley snapped without any real heat.

Beez leaned against the doorway. “I’ll wait.”

This wasn’t quite how Crowley pictured this wrapping up, but at least now he felt that this wasn’t the end. That their fumble in the closet wasn’t a bookend, but their first chapter. He hoped it was. He really did.

“Well, goodnight then,” he mumbled, aware of the three sets of eyes on him. “And happy Christmas.”

When Aziraphale smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and while so much of him had been the same, that was different, and it was lovely. “And a Happy Christmas to you, as well. Talk soon.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale began to climb the stairs and Beez stepped out beside Crowley to watch him go. 

“You smell of wood polish,” they muttered, as they looked past Aziraphale to the imposing figure at the top of the stairs, who seemed to be looking back down at them. He, the American, Crowley gathered, smiled an extremely white smile. Beez sniffed. “Yeah, maybe.” Then they called up the stairs and lifted their glass. “Maybe!”

The American looked puzzled, but then retreated to the upstairs room once Aziraphale reached the top of the stairs.

Before Aziraphale followed him in, he turned and raised his hand in farewell, a beatific smile still playing on his lips.

Crowley did the same, but it wasn’t a goodbye at all.


End file.
